


Anchor

by amireal



Series: Crisis [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cuddling, Depression, Gen, M/M, mild anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:26:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson doesn’t force anything on him, no interaction, no replies, just possibly the occasional morsel of food and that isn’t a demand so much as a combination of pleading and worried eyes. Also Clint knows he needs the calories, he usually feels a bit better for a few minutes after he chokes something down, no matter how much he doesn’t want it at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> As with the first story, this is a pretty detailed look inside the head of someone suffering from a major depressive episode with some anxiety thrown in.
> 
> Timeline: This takes place 2 years after Clint is recruited to SHIELD, before Natasha is recruited and years before Avengers happens in MCU.

The first night is easiest. He’s got hope and warm food that’s not out of a warming tray and someone nearby who _knows_. It’s easy to grasp onto that little bit of hope and joy the last few hours have planted and he sleeps so easily that night he thinks he smiles through most of it. 

It’s midway through the next day when it starts to get harder again. His appetite is no longer even the meager one he had gotten used to. Now it’s gone, just totally gone. It’s not even nausea that comes up when he thinks about breakfast, just discomfort at the idea of putting food into his stomach. Still though, the pleading look that slips onto Coulson’s face for a brief few seconds gets him to swallow down a few fork fulls of fluffy scrambled eggs.

Coulson doesn’t force anything on him, no interaction, no replies, just possibly the occasional morsel of food and that isn’t a demand so much as a combination of pleading and worried eyes. Also Clint knows he needs the calories, he usually feels a bit better for a few minutes after he chokes something down, no matter how much he doesn’t want it at the time.

Clint retains control of the remote and Coulson’s mouth quirks upward incrementally whenever he uses it so he assumes it’s at least okay. He falls asleep curled up on the couch because something has shifted and it’s like his body can now acknowledge the endless tiredness inside of him. His mind knows he can just let it go now. He doesn’t need to keep up the pretense and so it doesn’t even try. 

He doesn’t have a lot of nightmares anymore, maybe it takes too much energy to be that afraid, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t dream. It’s just rare he manages more than a full cycle of sleep at a time so the dreams are a little distant and hard to remember after a night of tossing and turning. His nap seems to break that cycle.

He wakes with a whimper, clutching at something that isn’t there. The dream, this time, is clear and sharp. It’s more sensation than sight, arms holding him, a heartbeat in his ear, another body grounding him, caring. He’s crying, maybe before he even wakes up. Coulson is there instantly, sitting in the space his body creates by being curled up into itself. Coulson’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him, as if to wake him up but Clint’s already too awake. These dreams are worse than the nightmares, these dreams leave an aching hole that has no one to fill it.

“It’s okay,” Coulson says quietly, “I’m here, shh.”

It’s not even a conscious thought, well, Clint’s not sure what is and isn’t a conscious thought anymore, but there’s a blink and then he’s sitting up and pulling Coulson close, wrapping his arms around him, trying to soothe the ache of loneliness inside of him. Coulson returns the favor, only slightly hesitant before letting his arms and upper body go pliant into the hug, supporting Clint’s back and rubbing endlessly calming circles into it.

It’s the same as the dream and that shocks another needy whine out of him and Coulson’s arms tighten. “Shh, I’m here, I’m here,” Coulson whispers into his hair, rocking their bodies gently. It’s both better and worse than before because Clint isn’t able to logically understand the gesture, if Coulson is acting as boss, colleague, friend or family, he can’t take apart the scenario, there’s no threat assessment for him to read and his entire word view is too warped to understand and of it anyway.

It just feels so good to be _held_ and Coulson doesn’t let go, he just continues to hold him and say quiet nonsense words and rock him into calmness.

“Sorry,” he eventually mutters, voice hoarse from holding in sounds.

“Don’t be,” Coulson says easily, “you can’t even hope to control it right now and trying to do so would just eat away at what little energy you have.” He sounds genuine, so very genuine. “Clint, right now your brain is telling you things that are probably not very true. So let me be clear,” he gently pries Clint’s face off his shoulder so that their eyes can meet, “I don’t mind at all, I’m both flattered and relieved that you felt you could come to me. Okay?”

Clint nods, blinking a few tears out of his eyes. “Okay. Can you,” he stops, his voice going from rough to thready, “can you tell me that again tomorrow?”

“I can tell you that as often as you like.” Coulson’s face is completely guileless, possibly for the first time in Clint’s memory. “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“I,” Clint swallows, “dreams are in some part wish fulfillment, right?”

Coulson’s head wobbles, like he wants to both nod yes and shake it in a negative at the same time. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes it’s just what’s on our minds or even the equivalent of muscle cramps being worked out.” His hands stay steady on Clint, holding his head up in one and hugging him with the other. “It doesn’t have to mean all that much of anything.”

Clint nods and he’s almost got it under control, that swell of bitter sadness, but then his mind flashes to that feeling of the dream, the sensation of another person, being there, caring and it bubbles over in an uncontrolled sob. “I think it does,” he says when he can breath again without hitching his chest. “There’s another person,” he says carefully, “just that. Another person.”

“What are they doing?” Coulson asks, obviously bracing for something terrible, something that relates to a mission or even earlier.

Clint shakes his head, because he can see it in Coulson’s eyes, the expectant horrible vision. “Nothing. Just. Being there.” Clint swallows as Coulson’s eyes go soft and vulnerable, “With me. Just being there with— for me.”

“Oh Clint,” Coulson whispers and pulls him back in only this time, Clint’s not the only one trembling. “We’ve really done you a disservice. If that’s your worst nightmare.”

“Not nightmare,” Clint says, lips accidentally catching on the skin of Coulson’s neck, he’s been tucked into Coulson’s shoulder tightly. 

“Fantasy then,” Coulson says, shifting them on the couch until they’re comfortably supported, Coulson is sitting normally, Clint has his legs up and stretched out, he’d be facing away from Coulson if he wasn’t twisting at the waist into the hold. “This life,” he starts, stops and clears his throat, then goes on, “it’s difficult enough without the right allies, without people who you trust to stand shoulder to shoulder with you and that’s just professionally, personally, it’s even worse if you spend day after day, month after month and year after year without a single shoulder to lean on.”

“That sounds like the pitch you gave me when I was recruited,” Clint says, even as a calm finally settles over his body. He’s not quite in Coulson’s lap this time, he’s planted firmly on the cushion next to Coulson, but his upper body is plastered diagonally across the other man’s. 

“It wasn’t a pitch,” Coulson’s voice has gone quiet, “not for you.” He’s still stroking Clint’s back, but it has an absent quality to it, like he’s not even thinking about it. “I studied your file,” he says eventually, “I could see you were self destructing but you were too good at what you did, you were amazing and no one that good should be—”

“Wasted like that?” Clint guesses easily.

“Alone.” Coulson corrects quickly, “No one that amazing should be alone.”

Clint’s head snaps up from where it’s resting on Coulson’s shoulder. “What?”

Coulson’s eyes look mortified before they squeeze closed. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“Don’t take it back,” Clint pleads.

Coulson stays like that for a long moment, eyes shut tightly, entire body frozen, even his ever comforting hands have stopped their circles. Eventually he breathes out and his entire body collapses inward just a little until their foreheads touch. It’s the most intimate moment Clint has had in a long time. “Clint. I can’t. In good conscience—”

“Because you’re my boss?” Clint deliberately interrupts this time, hoping to shock more information out of him.

“Yes,” Coulson says immediately then changes his mind, “No. I mean. Right now, that’s not what worries me the most.” Coulson’s his hand comes up and cups Clint’s cheek, strokes it gently, “Clint,” his voice clicks thickly and Clint is momentarily lost in the emotion of the action behind the hand on his face, “you’re in the middle of a deeply depressive episode during which a number of your own faculties cannot be trusted to logically interpret just about anything in relation to yourself and you came to me,” Coulson’s words stumble with emotion, “ _me_ for help. I cannot abuse that trust and even talking about this now comes dangerously close to a line that would devastate me if I crossed it. Especially with you.”

The look in Coulson’s eyes, when they finally open again, is pleading and Clint nods carefully, not dislodging them from their small cocoon of intimacy, he lifts his hand to touch the hand on his cheek. “Okay, but you have to promise me we’ll talk about it later?”

Coulson nods a little frantically and Clint can’t figure out if it’s because he really wants to talk about it or if he’s trying really hard to move the topic on and that’s enough to convince Clint that Coulson is right, he’s not in the right frame of mind for anything like this.

“And that you’re not going to try and convince me, or yourself, later that we’re stuck in the middle of a terrible Florence Nightingale scenario,” Clint adds because these days all he can easily see are the worst case scenarios. 

“I promise,” Coulson whispers raggedly.

“Okay,” Clint nods and then deflates, that was the end of his energy and he lets Coulson move him back to a less emotionally fraught position. They stay like that until there’s a muffled beeping.

“My phone alarm,” Coulson says, “it’s time for you to try and eat something.”

Clint nods but makes no effort to turn his muscles from pliant and relaxed into what they need to move. Coulson doesn’t either.

The backup alarm sounds a few minutes later.

“I,” Coulson says quietly, “if we get up,” he takes a long stroke up and down Clint’s back. “This isn’t the line I was talking about, you obviously need—”

“You,” Clint says it because it needs to be out there. Coulson is right, he came here for a reason. Under him, Coulson tenses. “In the dreams, it’s you.” Curled up against Coulson’s chest, his arms holding him tight, he’s had time to think about it. It isn’t a new dream, the one from his nap. It’s an old one, one that morphs as his life moves on. A little under two years ago it changed again. He’s got a comparative analysis now. He and Coulson have apparently grappled enough that his mind has replaced the dream chest under his ear with his.

“Clint,” Coulson sounds choked.

“No line crossing,” Clint assures him, “just making sure we understand each other. Discussions as to what exactly I need you for, can be left for later.” He can feel the nod Coulson gives him before hauling himself to the side so Coulson can stand. 

He eats twice as much as the last time and Coulson’s shoulders go a little looser the more he manages. It’s quite the enticement. When they settle back onto the couch, Coulson takes one end but deliberately opens his body language, loosening his limbs and spreading his arms wide. Clint blinks, debates if it’s actually a message for him or if he’s over reading things. It’s another very good indication that the conversation should be postponed for a good while.

“It’s not in your head,” Coulson says softly, “come on.”

Clint joins him slowly, leaning carefully to his left, where Coulson is sprawled, until his head is resting against Coulson’s chest, his heartbeat a steady thump-thump in his ear. An arm comes around him, holds him carefully, with gentle assurance that’s so comforting he spends long minutes savoring it. When he’s ready, he reaches for the remote nestled carefully in Coulson’s hand, he releases it immediately and Clint realizes he’s been waiting for it. He smiles in the soft sweater under his face and brings up the on screen guide.

Clint postpones bedtime as long as possible, he doesn’t want to try spending the long, dark hours before sunrise alone. The previous evening of decent sleep aside, Clint’s not sure he’ll be granted another. He’s not that lucky of late. By the third time his head jerks back from heavy eyelids, Coulson’s body is tensed and Clint can just about feel the words gathering up in his chest.

“What’s the problem?” he eventually asks.

“I don’t—” Clint chokes on the emotion in his throat and then spends a second shocked that there is that much emotion. He wonders if the meds are starting to work or if it’s a bit of a placebo effect combined with the soothing hours of having another person right next to him. Of having Coulson right next to him. “The bed is— doesn’t have,” he bites down on the end of the sentence, but Coulson isn’t stupid and right now he’s running on a lot more cylinders than Clint is.

Still, he sounds shocked when he finishes Clint’s thought. “Me?”

Clint nods. “I don’t sleep well during the best of times, but usually I’ve had a full day of being a SHIELD agent under my belt when I try.”

“Exhaustion,” Coulson translates. “Clint,” he begins after a long silence, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, the line is pretty blurry from where I’m sitting.”

Clint turns his head into Coulson’s chest, burying the shame of what he’s about to say. “I haven’t had an erection in months. I’m not asking for anything more than I would be capable of giving anyway.”

Coulson’s laugh sounds weak. “I’m not worried about _you_.”

“Oh.” His blush intensifies a hundred fold, but he manages to stutter out a horrifying, “Please?”

The air whooshes out of the chest cavity beneath Clint’s hands. “Okay, come on, but you have to tell me when the meds start to kick in because if they’re not enough to help with your sleep then that’s something that needs to be addressed.”

Clint nods. “I promise.” His limbs are a little confused as he stands, the hours of Coulson’s presence have relaxed them far more than Clint is used to, but eventually he’s upright and Coulson sends him off to get ready. There’s not much to do, his clothing is basically sleep wear but he assumes that Coulson wants a moment of privacy, so he provides it, taking his time to use the toilet and brush his teeth with more care than he ever remembers doing in recent history. 

When he shuffles into Coulson’s bedroom, shame faced and half convinced that maybe he’s misread the situation, he only relaxes when Coulson, now in sleep pants and a t-shirt smiles at him shyly. 

“Get comfortable, I’ll be right back.” Coulson slides past him, a nervous twitch barely visible.

Clint examines the bed, trying to decide if Coulson has a favored side. There’s a dog eared book on one side table, along with a cell phone already plugged in for charging. It seems like a good guess that even if Coulson is a sprawler, that’s his side of the bed. He sits on the opposite side and tries to find the courage to climb in but it’s mostly in torn apart scraps down at his feet. He gives up and slumps, waiting for Coulson to return.

When he does, he comes into Clint’s view via a set of bare toes. It’s a bizarre moment before Clint connects those toes, those ordinary, a little crooked, but well maintained toes to Coulson. 

“Everything okay?” Coulson asks.

Clint shrugs. “My brain keeps convincing me that I’m wrong.”

“Ah,” Coulson nods, as if he expects that. Maybe he does, he’s been surprisingly knowledgeable about this whole thing. “Let’s start with my promise a bit early then,” he squats in front of Clint, making sure they can make eye contact, “I am glad you are here. I’m happy that you came to me. I don’t mind it one bit. Got that?”

Clint’s body relaxes when he realizes what Coulson is doing. “Not just saying that?”

Coulson gives him a tolerant look. “When have I _ever_ just said something?”

Clint laughs, “Right. What was I thinking?”

“I think,” Coulson pats him companionably, “that we’ve established you shouldn’t trying anything like that for at least another few days.”

He laughs again and relaxes further. “Now that’s an order I can get behind.”

Coulson’s face is soft in the dark light of the room, but for once the shadows don’t frighten him. “Come on, your circles have circles.”

Clint nods in agreement but doesn’t swing his legs up until he feels the bed dip behind him from Coulson’s weight. The mattress in the guest room is nice, but it’s nothing compared to this one. It’s firm yet yielding and he can feel it conform to his body nearly instantly. He spends a little time experimenting with it, moving left and then right, feeling the material bounce back softly as he leaves each position.

The chuckle from his right is more soothing than surprising, he turns his head to see Coulson still sitting upright as well, but smiling softly. “An old friend once gave me a bit of advice, choose one or two things in your life to truly care about and indulge, an indulgence just for yourself,” he pushes at the empty bit of mattress between them affectionately, “it’s even better when the thing you indulge in, in turn indulges you. This mattress is my newest effort. I bought it after that dislocated hip incident,” Coulson gives him a wry look, “well in the middle of it. The couch wasn’t giving me enough support and while the bed originally seemed comfortable enough, by day three I had parts of me falling asleep that should never be asleep while I’m awake.”

“That’s what I hate about the beds in medical,” Clint nods, “they’re supposed to be the most advanced thing in preventing bed sores or something, but mostly my ass falls asleep almost instantly.”

Coulson’s laugh incites Clint’s laugh and it’s like his chest is full of helium how light it makes him feel.

“Come on,” Coulson smiles while inching his way down to horizontal, “you’ve got a big day of barely eating and watching terrible TV tomorrow. You need to rest up.”

When Coulson says it, it’s not insulting or mocking, just gently and genuinely affectionate with a quiet undertone of worry. He nods and pulls the covers up as he pushes himself down, curling up on his side. The pillow is just as comfortable as the rest of the bed, the blankets and sheets too. Coulson must have gone all out after he got a good feel of the mattress, Clint would have too. He tries to settle, relax into sleep like he’d been fighting just a little while ago on the couch, it takes a bit to realize what’s different from the couch, the small, but somehow still infinitely vast, valley of space between them.

He doesn’t want to presume, he doesn’t want to make a wrong step and he doesn’t want to listen to his own mind when it tells him he is unwelcome. His stomach is churning by the time he can force out a few words. “Can I—”

“Yes,” Coulson speaks before he can finish, like he’s been waiting for the question but couldn’t bring himself to ask. 

As Clint reaches out, Coulson reaches back and they gravitate to each other like magnets and like a switch is flipped, Clint can breath again, can relax.

“Clint, I need you to,” Coulson swallows, his hands, the ones that hold Clint close, shake a little, “I know it’s hard right now, but I need you to be the one to, no, that’s not fair,” he sighs, “I need you to help me keep that line— to keep on the right side of that line.”

“Okay,” Clint nods, “so you mean like,” he extends his arm from where it’s tucked against his side so that he’s no longer just resting his head on Coulson’s shoulder but hugging his chest and then his knee bends just enough to bump into Coulson’s as well. “I have to reach out as well.”

“Yes,” he says even as his own arms haul Clint just that much closer, “it has to be as much about what you need and want as what I— no, it can’t be about what I want.”

Clint swallows and frowns, “Do you want to help me?”

“Of course.” Coulson’s answer is instant, which Clint cherishes but also hates how it sooths down an instant of doubt that is created in that brief instant before the question is finished being articulated and Coulson replies.

“Do you want to be there for me?” Clint asks because he needs to know that this support won’t just disappear one day and leave him falling.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s not just about what I want, is it?” He looks up, not moving his head off the shoulder it’s laying on, so he’s not really meeting Coulson’s eyes, more like his chin and jaw as it tightens and then loosens again.

“I guess not,” Coulson finally admits, “but it _should_ be mostly about you.”

“Okay,” Clint sighs, his body feeling heavy and safe, “but I reserve the right,” he yawns, hugely, “to renegotiate later.”

“Deal,” Coulson murmurs, running a soothing hand from his shoulder blades to his waist and then back until the feeling of it whispers into Clint’s skin, sinks into him and becomes one with his body, like the slowly lapping waves of the ocean against the beach.


End file.
